


Keeping the Divide

by freyjawriter24



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Crowley's Bakery, Fluff, Heaven and Hell working together, Human AU, Kind of..., M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:46:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21575479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjawriter24/pseuds/freyjawriter24
Summary: Human AU in which Aziraphale runs a bookshop and Crowley runs a bakery, and they meet and cuteness ensues. Except not all is what it seems...-----Yes, everything is Hozier lyrics because I am a lost cause. The fic title is part of a line fromNina Cried Power.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 62





	1. Words to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from a Hozier lyric: “Heaven and Hell were words to me”, from [_Work Song_](https://genius.com/Hozier-work-song-lyrics).

_And here is something new. The forces of Heaven and Hell working together. Well, that’s not so new in itself, but what they’re doing is. They’re rebooting this story..._

\-----

The bell of the bookshop jingled cheerfully as Crowley stepped inside. He paused for a moment in the doorway, taking in the unexpected scale of the place, then moved forwards and let the door swing shut behind him.

The whole place was incredible. A cluttered assortment of tables and shelves filled most of the area in front of him, all stacked with innumerable old books and other antiques, each slightly dusty. As he moved into the space, he began to notice more and more – the bookshop went back further than it looked like it did from the outside, and each new section was just as jumbled and beautiful as the last. There were chairs scattered around, too, all old-looking things that looked at once both inviting and fragile. There were little statuettes of dancers and angels, paperweights that looked like they were made two centuries ago, a pile of cushions in one corner. The whole thing had a soft, comfortable feel to it, like the home of a grandparent, perhaps, or a nook in a favourite coffee shop.

There were lamps scattered here and there, too, and some sunshine was filtering in from the grubby front windows, but most of the natural light was coming from a huge domed skylight in the centre of the shop, which poured down from what looked like an upper floor, though Crowley wasn’t sure where the stairs were. Quite possibly they’d been consumed by a pile of books.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d come in here. He’d been on his way back to his own shop, but his feet had taken him this way almost of their own accord, and he simply hadn’t noticed until he’d stopped outside. And it had seemed interesting enough from out there – a little old bookshop, apparently perfectly preserved in the middle of Soho for some two hundred years. And he’d been meaning to get something new to read, so why not support a local business for a change, rather than just ordering off Amazon like usual? So he’d gone in. And found this... masterpiece of a building.

He ventured slowly across the floor, peering at the piles of papers and objects, scanning the names of the apparently ancient books on the shelves. It was like a museum in here – a perfectly preserved image of what you imagined an old bookshop would look like, or maybe the study of some eccentric old lord or other. He wondered for a moment whether that was actually the case, whether this was actually some sort of living museum, and maybe he shouldn’t touch anything.

Then he saw the shopkeeper, and was almost certain he was right.

The man was stood by a shelf, almost frozen in place as he stared through a pair of ridiculous little reading glasses at a page of one of the books. He wasn’t a customer, Crowley was certain, purely because of what he was wearing. A long cream jacket over a worn, soft-textured waistcoat, paired with a pale blue shirt and a tartan bow tie, of all things. And his hair was a whole other thing – almost pure white and curled in a way that looked like some sort of renaissance painting of a cloud, all soft substance and ever so touchable.

Crowley frowned at that thought – _touchable?_ – but had to smile at the overall effect. It was so strange-but-lovable-old-man-with-a-wacky-Victorian-bookshop that it made you want to laugh aloud, and yet somehow it actually suited the stranger. He couldn’t imagine him wearing anything other than variations on that.

Just then the shopkeeper seemed to notice he wasn’t alone anymore. He paused in the middle of turning a page, then looked up as if coming out of a dream, and caught sight of Crowley at the end of the shelf.

“Oh! Hello there. I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. Do you need any help?”

“Uh, no, no, I just...” Crowley wasn’t sure exactly what to say. “I was just... Is this actually a shop?”

The man frowned, a collection of soft creases appearing on his forehead. The hair was actually a bit of a red herring, Crowley realised. The shopkeeper probably wasn’t actually that old – not _young_ , certainly, but probably nearer to Crowley’s age than anything else. Certainly not anybody who could be an actual Victorian.

“Err, well, yes,” the shopkeeper said, clearly puzzled.

“Oh, uh, yes, of course,” Crowley blustered, suddenly realising what a stupid thing to say that was. _Living museum? We’re in the middle of London, that would be signposted everywhere if it was._ “Sorry,” he said, trying out an apologetic smile. “It just looks all so... perfect.”

The shopkeeper gave a slightly bewildered smile. “Oh! Well, thank you.” He paused for a moment, looking Crowley up and down.

Crowley suddenly became aware what he must look like. All in black, covered in flour the way this shop was covered in dust, sunglasses still on and no obvious reason for being here. He must stick out like a sore thumb, even if he hadn’t just asked the shopkeeper if this was a real shop.

“Can I... help you with anything?” the man asked again.

“Oh, uh...” Crowley shrugged, attempting to regain his cool in some small way. _Where’s casual Crowley when you need him?_ “I was just, you know... looking for a book.”

The shopkeeper brightened immediately. “Anything particular in mind?”

“Umm...” Crowley shrugged again, twice, and internally kicked himself. _Nobody shrugs this much. You look like you’re hiding something. Why can’t you act natural?_

“Well, I, uh...” He cleared his throat and started again. “I never really read that much growing up, so I think there’s quite a few classics I’ve missed out on. I’ve just finished reading a collection of Shakespeare, so I, uh, wanted to find something new. New that’s old, I mean. Something... old. To read.”

_Damn, why can’t you speak normally? It’s not like he’s even that cute – oh. Yeah, that’ll be it. He’s kind of cute. Never can think straight around people like this, can you Crowley?_

The shopkeeper didn’t seem to mind Crowley’s faltering, though. He immediately snapped shut and re-shelved the book he was holding, took his reading glasses off and folded them gently into a pocket, then straightened his bow tie with a beaming grin and the air of someone on a mission.

“Right! Well, what else have you read recently? Do you want to stick to the same sort of era as Shakespeare, or go a little older, a little newer? Did you prefer the poems or the plays? What sort of genre are you after?”

It took Crowley a second to catch up to the barrage of questions, but when he did, he answered them in order. “Uh, not much, just a bit of Charles Dickens, but that was a bit of a struggle, it’s all quite long. I don’t mind about era, just like the idea of reading some classics. Err, I think I preferred the poems, but with the plays the funny ones were the best. So, uh, I guess in terms of genre, maybe comedy? But whatever you’d recommend, really.”

The shopkeeper somehow smiled even wider, then turned around and hurried deeper into the shop. Crowley followed at a slow saunter, trying to keep his cool. _You can’t just fall in love with a guy you’ve just met, you idiot. That’s not how that works._

For a second, it looked like the shopkeeper had vanished, then he suddenly reappeared with a book in his hand. It looked a little newer than the copy he’d just been caught reading, but still miles older than Crowley’s newly-printed collection of Shakespeare.

“Now, how did you get on with the language in Shakespeare? Any trouble understanding any of it?”

Crowley shook his head slowly. “Nah, not really. It was a bit weird at first, but I picked it up quickly. Pretty much the same as today, right? All sword fights and –” he cut himself off and faked a cough to cover up his falter. _Probably shouldn’t just say ‘dick jokes’ in front of a random cute old-fashioned stranger._ “Uhh, you know...”

“Vulgar language?” the shopkeeper supplied, a twinkle in his eye. Crowley nodded, his cheeks feeling a little warmer than usual.

“Yes, that was rather Bill’s way. People always seem to think he’s a sort of high-brow writer, all wonderful words and deep meanings. Which he was, on some level, I suppose. But that’s not why his work has survived so long – it’s because there’s _layers_ to it all, there’s jokes that the gentry would get and a dozen more that the working groundling would laugh at too.”

“Bill?” Crowley smirked.

The shopkeeper’s face dropped instantly, and Crowley’s heart clenched in regret.

“No, no, I’m not –” he scrambled quickly. “I didn’t mean to sound rude, I just... It’s cute you call him that. Funny, I mean. Sweet.” _Oh Lord, stop now, you idiot. Stop talking._

“Oh,” the other man said softly, face brightening slightly again. “Right, yes. Well, um, thank you?”

“No, um – sorry.” Crowley searched frantically for a way to salvage the situation. “So, err, what’ve you got there?”

“Ah, yes!” The shopkeeper seemed to suddenly remember he was holding a book, and held it up triumphantly.

“Chaucer?” Crowley asked sceptically.

“Yes! You see, you’ll be thinking the same things about this as everyone thinks about Shakespeare.”

Crowley noted the slight emphasis the shopkeeper seemed to put on that last word, as if having to remind himself to use the academic name rather than his own nickname for the playwright. Something tugged at Crowley from inside his chest, and he wished – not for the first time – that he could keep his mouth shut when it came to smart-arse questions.

“But the thing is,” the shopkeeper continued, “if you can manage the archaic language, it’s really rather entertaining. And you said you liked comedies, so...” He gave a little grin again, his eyes twinkling the same way they had earlier. “I suggest you give _The Miller’s Tale_ a go.”

Crowley took the thick book from where it was held out invitingly between them. It was a little dusty, like it hadn’t been touched for a while, but it was obviously both well-read and well-cared for at the same time. He opened it to a random page and found that each passage seemed to be annotated with twenty different footnotes.

“As I said, the language is a little archaic,” the shopkeeper said apologetically. “If you find it too much of a bother, come back and I’ll refund it to you, no questions asked. But there’s a glossary in the back, and lots of footnotes, as you can see, and, well, it is rather worth it, if you can make it through. And I’ve been told there’s some rather good translations online, too, if you want to read it in more modern English.”

Crowley found himself smiling softly again at the shopkeeper’s rambling explanation. He really was rather cute, his endless enthusiasm bleeding into his entire being and lighting up his face like the sun. Perhaps he’d have to make his way back here again, after he was finished with Chaucer.

“Well, I’ll give it a go. Thank you, err...”

He left space for a name, and the shopkeeper looked at him blankly for a second before starting and filling in the gap.

“Aziraphale Fell. I’m a descendant of the ‘A.Z. Fell’ of the sign outside.”

Crowley hadn’t noticed the sign coming in. He’d just sort of appeared on the doorstep and decided to go in. He’d have to check it out on the way back, make sure he knew what to google to find this place again.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley rolled the name around on his tongue. It was an unusual name, he’d give him that, but it wasn’t a strange one, somehow. If felt... right. Fitting, he supposed, for this strange man in his strange bookshop, looking like they were in the wrong era. “What does the A.Z. stand for, then?”

“Do you know, I can’t actually remember.” Aziraphale said, frowning again. “I was trying to look this up the other day, but... well, my record keeping isn’t as pristine as I’d like it to be. I have a strange fancy it might have been Adam Zachariah – those seem to ring a bell as important names somehow – but I can’t for the life of me find any sort of family history.” He waved a hand loosely. “Must be something _somewhere_. It’ll turn up.”

Crowley nodded lightly. He looked again at the book. “So, uh, how much will this be?”

Aziraphale led the way to the front of the shop, weaving between the shelves and crossing that wide open space under the dome. He came to a stop behind a very outdated-looking till, and punched in some numbers.

The book turned out to be cheaper than Crowley had expected, presumably as a result of it being second-hand – he’d almost expected it to be antique-level expensive, especially because it was being sold in this strange place in the middle of Soho, but it was surprisingly reasonable. “I’ll shop here again,” he quipped.

“Please do, uh...” This time it was the shopkeeper who trailed off, looking for a name, and Crowley smoothly supplied it.

“Anthony J. Crowley. Friends call me Crowley though. You can too, if you want. Prefer it to Anthony, to be honest.”

“ _Crowley_.” Somehow, Aziraphale had this soft way of saying his name that made it sound almost... gentle. Like a feather on the wind or something. _You’ve been reading too much poetry._

“That’s it,” Crowley said, for some godforsaken reason putting up finger guns along with it. _Pull yourself together, you weirdo._

He took the book from where it had been left on the counter.

“Do you want a bag or anything?” Aziraphale said, looking nervously around as if he wasn’t sure such a thing existed.

“Nah, I’ll be fine. Don’t have anything else to carry, and the weather’s not looking too horrendous today, touch wood.” He knocked superstitiously on the front of the counter, and Aziraphale smiled slightly at the gesture. “Besides,” Crowley continued, attempting to look cool again. “I don’t have far to walk.”

“I’ll see you around again sometime, then?” the shopkeeper said, and Crowley could have sworn there was a slight bit of colour appearing there in his cheeks. _Nah. Just wishful thinking, mate._

“Yeah, sure,” Crowley said easily. “I’ll come let you know how I’m getting on with Chaucer.”

“Looking forward to it,” Aziraphale smiled.

\-----

_“They’ll probably never even meet. London’s a big place, and they’re used to travelling anyway.”_

_“And even if they did meet, they’ll have no recollection of each other.”_

_“It’ll be fine. We’re in control here.”_

_“Of course.”_


	2. A Place We Could Escape Sometime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from [_Jackie and Wilson_](https://genius.com/Hozier-jackie-and-wilson-lyrics) by Hozier.

Despite his best efforts, Aziraphale was doing a pretty poor job of keeping the strange customer from the day before out of his head.

Aside from the weird line of questioning – _‘is this actually a shop?’_ – he was striking to look at, stood there in all black, right down to the sunglasses, clothes spattered with what looked like flour, and a flame-red head of hair to top it all off. And Aziraphale had the strangest feeling he’d seen him before somehow, even though he knew he hadn’t, he couldn’t possibly. He’d remember someone who looked like _that_.

He wondered how Crowley was getting on with Chaucer, if he’d even started reading the book yet. He shouldn’t expect him back here for a week or two, at least. But that didn’t stop him from glancing up whenever the shop bell rang, eyes searching for a hint of red hair.

Aziraphale puttered about the shop for most of the day, dealing with the handful of customers who came in, helping them buy books they’d genuinely love, subtly steering them away from the ones he’d rather they didn’t take. He’d moved most of the best ones upstairs, of course – all the books that had some sort of signature in the front, any of the first editions that weren’t duplicates, the little collection of misprinted bibles, those odd books that held some sort of strong yet unplaceable sentimental feeling – but he still preferred to sell the batch he’d brought in for that purpose, rather than the collection of rare books that seemed to have lived in the shop since the beginning.

He had another quick look for any sort of family history or important documents hidden in the mess of the shop, but he’d already looked everywhere he could think of down here, and he wasn’t really expecting to find anything. The only other place that needed searching was his mess of a flat upstairs, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to do that yet. So he settled himself in the knowledge that he just wouldn’t know for now. Perhaps he could spend some time exploring that family history website he’d heard of when he went to the library later.

_Oh, the library!_ He checked his pocket watch and tutted. Oh dear, he’d lost track of time again. If he was going to make it there in time to sort everything out before it shut, he should really have left ten minutes ago. He quickly scouted round the shop to check no customers were in, then flipped the sign on the door to ‘Closed’.

As Aziraphale gathered up the handful of things he needed with him – keys, library card, money for a snack on the way back – the shop phone rang. Aziraphale glanced at it, then at his watch, then back at the phone. _It’s after hours now. I could just leave it._

But no. He should at least let the caller know. He hurried over to the receiver and picked it up.

“I’m terribly sorry, but we’re closed at the moment. Do feel free to ring again at another time.”

“No, no, it’s Tracy!” the voice at the other end said.

That gave Aziraphale pause. “I... don’t know anyone called Tracy, I’m afraid. I think you may have the wrong number.”

It sounded like the person at the other end was going to say something else, but Aziraphale had looked at his pocket watch again, and he really _had_ to get going now. “I’m very sorry, but I must be off. Have a lovely evening!”

He hung up the phone and double checked he had everything, then darted out the front door of the shop, hurriedly locking up behind him and then walking at an energetic pace down the street.

Aziraphale didn’t run. Most of the time he barely liked to even walk anywhere – except in the city’s parks when he had nowhere to be and there was time to properly enjoy the stroll – but the library really wasn’t that far, it would be ridiculous and wasteful to take public transportation or a taxi to get there. Saving the planet, and all that.

He was slightly ashamed to say he’d also never learned to ride a bike, but if he was honest with himself, that wouldn’t ever happen either – even if he owned one, and knew how to use it, he wasn’t sure he’d trust himself on the London streets. Plus it was still too much like unnecessary exercise.

He reached the library fifteen minutes after he’d intended to, but there was still plenty of time left to get everything sorted. He quickly located a free computer and settled himself down at it, opening up the relevant webpages and logging in to his various accounts.

There was a computer at the bookshop, of course. But it was a very, very old one, mostly just good for doing basic sums and occasionally making notes about the business. Really he should get rid of it, upgrade to something a bit more modern, a bit more able to deal with the demands of twenty-first-century shopkeeping. But somehow he didn’t want to, and choosing a new machine sounded far too much like a hassle. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the money – he wasn’t exactly short of that – it was simply that he didn’t have the motivation. Besides, when there was a library with free-to-use computers available just around the corner, why bother?

He got everything sorted that he needed to, just. The librarians had seen him come in here often enough that they half-knew him, and chivvied him on gently with soft smiles as closing time crept up. He thanked them profusely as they locked him out, five minutes later than they should have.

The walk back was almost dark already, the clocks fallen back and the winter creeping in. It wasn’t quite dinnertime yet, which made it the ideal time of evening to grab a snack from somewhere. One of the many things Aziraphale loved about London was that there was always somewhere interesting to get something to eat.

There were twenty different routes back to the bookshop from here, each meandering up different side roads and passing a variety of different local cafes and restaurants. Today the route he chose went past Eden Bakes, a relatively new place that was always open late – exactly Aziraphale’s sort of place.

Decisions weren’t exactly a strong suit, as everything always looked equally delicious and he wanted to try one of each. The dream would be to have mini versions of each dessert so he could try everything, or have a friend to bring along so he could choose two and have half of each, but neither of those were options right now. Anyway, the dream was _actually_ to be able to get one of everything he liked the look of and eat them _all_ , but he’d been told ‘no’ quite firmly on that front on more than one occasion over the years.

Eventually he went for an iced cinnamon bun, a large, perfect spiral of sugar and spice, and carried it back to the bookshop with a smile on his face and a spring in his step.

Back inside, and with cocoa brewing in the bookshop’s kitchenette, the next decision was what to read for the evening. And without meaning it, the strange customer from yesterday was back on his mind. What would he want to read next, after Chaucer? What else would he like if he enjoyed _The Miller’s Tale_? What would be good to offer instead if he didn’t?

Aziraphale found himself whiling away the evening in the poetry section of the shop, pondering over collections filled with wonder and love and questions. He paged through Shakespeare and Dickinson and Blake and Plath. He traced the familiar titles, unconsciously mouthed favourite quotes as he read, inhaled the swell of his own emotions as he fell back into those beautiful, elegant worlds.

Eventually, he selected one and put it aside, just in case.


End file.
